Pluck on the Long Trail

E >> Edwin L. Sabin >> Pluck on the Long Trail

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

"He must be left-handed," said Fitz.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, see?" and then he told me.

Sure enough. That was smart of Fitz, I thought. But he's splendid to
read sign.

Now we followed the tracks back. The man had come down and had returned
by the same route. And up in the timber about fifty yards he had had a
horse. We read how he had been riding through, and had stopped, and got
off and walked down to the pond, and stood, and walked back and mounted
again and ridden on. All that was easy for Fitz, and I could read most
of it myself.

We trailed the horse until the tracks surely went away from the pond
into the timber country; then we let it go, and met General Ashley, to
report. General Ashley and Kit Carson also examined the prints in the
sand, and we all agreed that the man probably was left-handed.

Now, why had he come down to the edge of the pond, on purpose, and
looked at it and at us, and then turned up at a trot into the timber? It
would seem as if he might have been afraid that we had seen him, and he
didn't want to be seen. But all our guesses here and after we reached
camp again didn't amount to much, of course.

We decided to stay for the night. It was a good camp place, and we
wouldn't gain anything, maybe, by starting on, near night, and getting
caught in the timber in the dark. And this would give the burros a good
rest and a fill-up before their climb.

The burned stretch where we were was plumb full of live things--striped
chipmunks, and pine squirrels, and woodpecker families. Fitzpatrick
started in to take chipmunk pictures--and you ought to see how he can
manage a camera with one hand. He holds it between his knees or else
under his left arm, to draw the bellows out, and the rest is easy.

He scouted about and got some pictures of chipmunks real close, by
waiting, and a picture of a woodpecker feeding young ones, at a hole in
a dead pine stump. This was a good place for bear to come, after the
berries; and we were hoping that one would amble in while we were there
so that Fitz could take a picture of it, too. Bears don't hurt people
unless people try to hurt them; and a bear would sooner have raspberries
than have a man or boy, any day. Fitzpatrick thought that if he could
get a good picture of a bear, out in the open, that would bring him a
Scout's honor. Of course, chipmunk pictures help, too. But while we were
resting and fooling and taking pictures, and General Ashley was bringing
his diary and his map up to date, for record, we had another visitor.
(Note 20.)

A man came riding a dark bay horse, with white nose and white right fore
foot, along our side of the beaver pond, and halted at our camp. The
horse had left ear swallow-tailed and was branded with a Diamond Five on
the right shoulder. The man wasn't the man we had seen across the pond,
for he wore a sombrero, and was taller and had on overalls, and
cow-puncher boots.

[Illustration]

"Howdy?" he said.

"How are you?" we answered.

He sort of lazily dismounted, and yawned--but his sharp eyes were taking
us and our camp all in.

"Out fishing?" he asked.

"No, sir. Passing through," said General Ashley.

"Going far?"

"Over to Green Valley."

"Walking?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good place for beaver, isn't it?"

"A bad place."

"That so? Used to be some about here. Couldn't catch any, eh?"

"We aren't trying. But it seems a bad place for beaver because the only
one we have seen is a dead one in a trap."

The man waked up. "Whose trap?"

"We don't know." And the general went on to explain.

The man nodded. "I'm a deputy game warden," he said at last. "Somebody's
been trapping beaver in here, and it's got to stop. Haven't seen any one
pass through?"

We had. The general reported.

"Smallish man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Roan hoss branded quarter circle D on the left hip? Brass-bound
stirrups?"

"We didn't see the horse; but we think the man was left-handed," said
the general.

"Why?"

"He was left-footed, because there was a hole in the sole of the left
shoe, and that would look as though he used his left foot more than his
right. So we think he may be left-handed, too." (Note 21.)

The game warden grunted. He eyed our flag.

"You kids must be regular Boy Scouts."

"We are."

"Then I reckon you aren't catching any beaver. All right, I'll look for
a left-footed man, maybe left-handed. But it's this fellow on the roan
hoss I'm after. He's been trying to sell pelts. There's no use my
trailing him, to-day. But I'll send word ahead, and if you lads run
across him let somebody know. Where are you bound for?"

The general told him.

"By way of Pilot Peak?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll tell you a short cut. You see that strip of young timber
running up over the ridge? That's an old survey trail. It crosses to the
other side. Over beyond you'll strike Dixon's Park and a ruined
saw-mill. After that you can follow up Dixon's Creek."

We thanked him and he mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER V

TWO RECRUITS

When we got up in the morning, the mountains still had their night-caps
on. White mist was floating low about their tips, and lying in the
gulches like streams and lakes. Above timber-line, opposite us, was a
long layer of cloud, with the top of old Pilot Peak sticking through.

This was a weather sign, although the sun rose clear and the sky was
blue. Nightcaps are apt to mean a showery day. (Note 22.) We took our
wet rub, ate breakfast, policed the camp and killed the fire, and
General Ashley put camphor and cotton against little Jed Smith's back
tooth, to stop some aching. Maybe there was a hole in the tooth, or
maybe Jed had just caught cold in it, after being wet; but he ought to
have had his teeth looked into before he started out on the scout.
(Note 23.) Anyway, the camphor stopped the ache--and made him dance,
too.

We crossed the creek, above the beaver pond, and struck off into the old
survey trail that cut over the ridge. The brush was thick, and the trees
had sprung up again, so that really it wasn't a regular trail unless
you had known about it. The blazes on the side trees had closed over.
But all the same, by watching the scars, and by keeping in the line
where the trees always opened out, and by watching the sky as it showed
before, we followed right along.

After we had been traveling about two hours, we heard thunder and that
made us hustle the more, to get out of the thin timber, so that we would
not be struck by lightning. (Note 24.) The wind moaned through the
trees. The rain was coming, sure.

The trail was diagonally up-hill, all the way, and if we had been
cigarette smokers we wouldn't have had breath enough to hit the fast
pace that General Ashley set. The burros had to trot, and it made little
Jed Smith, who is kind of fat, wheeze; but we stuck it out and came to a
flat place of short dried grass and bushes, with no trees. Here we
stopped. We were about nine thousand feet up.

From where we were we could see the storm. It was flowing down along a
bald-top mountain back from our camp at the beaver pond, and looked like
gray smoke. The sun was just being swallowed. Well, all we could do was
to wait and take it, and see how bad it was. We tied Sally and Apache to
some bushes, but we didn't unpack them, of course. The tarps on top
would keep the grub from getting wet.

The storm made a grand sight, as it rolled toward us, over the timber.
And soon it was raining below us, down at the beaver pond--and then,
with a drizzle and a spatter, the rain reached us, too.

We sat hunched, under our hats, and took it. We might have got under
blankets--but that would have given us soaked blankets for night, unless
we had stretched the tarps, too; and if we had stretched the tarps then
the rest of our packs would have suffered. The best way is to crawl
under a spruce, where the limbs have grown close to the ground. But not
in a thunder storm. And it is better to be wet yourself and have a dry
camp for night, than to be dry yourself and have a wet camp for night.

Anyway, the rain didn't hurt us. While it thundered and lightened and
the drops pelted us well, we sang our Patrol song--which is a song like
one used by the Black feet Indians:

"The Elk is our Medicine,
He makes us very strong.
The Elk is our Medicine,
The Elk is our Medicine,
The Elk is our Medicine,
He makes us very strong.
Ooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

And when the thunder boomed we sang at it:

"The _Thunder_ is our Medicine--"

to show that we weren't afraid of it.

The squall passed on over us, and when it had about quit we untied the
burros and started on again. In just a minute we were warm and sweating
and could shed our coats; and the sun came out hot to dry us off.

We crossed the ridge, and on the other side we saw Dixon's Park. We knew
it was Dixon's Park, because the timber had been cut from it, and
Dixon's Park had had a saw-mill twenty years ago.

Once this park had been grown over with trees, like the side of the
ridge where we had been climbing; but that saw-mill had felled
everything in sight, so that now there were only old stumps and dead
logs. It looked like a graveyard. If the mill had been watched, as most
mills are to-day, and had been made to leave part of the trees, then the
timber would have grown again.

Down through the graveyard we went, and stopped for nooning at the
little creek which ran through the bottom. There weren't any fish in
this creek; the mill had killed the timber, and it had driven out the
fish with sawdust. It was just a dead place, and there didn't seem to be
even chipmunks.

We had nooning at the ruins of the mill. Tin cans and old boot soles and
rusted pipe were still scattered about. We were a little tired, and more
rain was coming, so we made a fire by finding dry wood underneath slabs
and things, and had tea and bread and butter. That rested us. Little
Jed Smith was only twelve years old, and we had to travel to suit him
and not just to suit us bigger boys. I'm fourteen and Major Henry is
sixteen. All the afternoon was showery; first we were dry, then we were
wet; and there wasn't much fun about sloshing and slipping along; but we
pegged away, and climbed out of Dixon's Park to the ridge beyond it. Now
we could see old Pilot Peak plain, and keeping to the high ground we
made for it. It didn't look to be very far away; but we didn't know,
now, all the things that lay between.

The top of this ridge was flat, and the forest reserve people had been
through and piled up the brush, so that a fire would not spread easily.
That made traveling good, and we hiked our best. Down in a gulch beside
us there was a stream: Dixon's Creek. But we kept to the high ground,
with our eyes open for a good camping spot, for the dark would close in
early if the rain did not quit. And nobody can pick a good camping place
in the dark.

Regular rest means a great deal when you are traveling across country.
Even cowboys will tell you that. They bed down as comfortably as they
can, every time, on the round-up.

After a while we came to a circular little spot, hard and flat, where
the timber had opened out. And General Ashley stopped and with a whirl
dug in his heel as sign that we would camp here. There was wood and
drainage and grass for the burros, and no danger of setting fire to the
trees if we made a big fire. We had to carry water up from the creek
below, but that was nothing.

Now we must hustle and get the camp in shape quick, before the things
get wet. While Fitzpatrick picked out a spot for his fire and Major
Henry chopped wood, two of us unpacked each burro. We put the things
under a tarp, and I started to bring up the water, but General Ashley
spoke.

"We're out of meat," he said. "You take the rifle and shoot a couple of
rabbits. There ought to be rabbits about after the rain."

This suited me. He handed me the twenty-two rifle and five cartridges;
out of those five cartridges I knew I could get two rabbits or else I
wasn't any good as a hunter. The sun was shining once more, and the
shadows were long in the timber, so I turned to hunt against the sun,
and put my shadow behind me. Of course, that wouldn't make _very_ much
difference, because rabbits usually see you before you see them; but I
was out after meat and must not miss any chances. There always is a
right way and a wrong way.

This was a splendid time to hunt for rabbits, right after a rain. They
come out then before dark, and nibble about. And you can walk on the
wetness without much noise. Early morning and the evening are the best
rabbit hours, anyway.

I walked quick and straight-footed, looking far ahead, and right and
left, through the timber, to sight whatever moved. Yet I might be
passing close to a rabbit, without seeing him, for he would be
squatting. So I looked behind, too. And after I had walked about twenty
minutes, I did see a rabbit. He was hopping, at one side, through the
bushes; he gave only about three hops, and squatted, to let me pass. So
I stopped stock-still, and drew up my rifle. He was about thirty yards
away, and was just a bunch like a stone; but I held my breath and aimed
at where his ears joined his head, and fired quick. He just kicked a
little. That was a pretty good shot and I was glad, for I didn't want to
hurt him and we had to have meat.

I hunted quite a while before I saw another rabbit. The next one was a
big old buck rabbit, because his hind quarters around his tail were
brown; young rabbits are white there. He hopped off, without stopping,
and I whistled at him--wheet! Then he stopped, and I missed him. I shot
over him, because I was in a hurry. I went across and saw where the
bullet had hit. And he had ducked.

He hopped out of sight, through the brush; so I must figure where he
probably would go. On beyond was a hilly place, with rocks, and probably
he lived here--and rabbits usually make up-hill when they're
frightened. So I took a circle, to cut him off; and soon he hopped again
and squatted. This time I shot him through the head, where I aimed; so I
didn't hurt him, either. I picked him up and was starting back for camp,
because two rabbits were enough, when I heard somebody shouting. It
didn't sound like a Scout's shout, but I answered and waited and kept
answering, and in a few minutes a strange boy came running and walking
fast through the trees. He carried a single-barrel shotgun.

He never would have seen me if I hadn't spoken; but when he wasn't more
than ten feet from me I said: "What's the matter?"

He jumped and saw me standing. "Hello," he panted. "Was it you who was
shooting and calling?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you come on, then?" he scolded. He was angry.

"Because you were coming," I said. "I stood still and called back, to
guide you."

"What did you shoot at?"

"Rabbits."

He hadn't seen them before, but now he saw them on the ground. "Aw,
jiminy!" he exclaimed. "We've got something better than that, but we
can't make a fire and our matches are all wet and so are our blankets,
and we don't know what to do. There's another fellow with me. We're
lost."

He was a sight; wet and dirty and sweaty from running, and scared.

"What are you doing? Camping?" I asked.

He nodded. "We started for Duck Lake, with nothing but blankets and what
grub we could carry; but we got to chasing around and we missed the
trail and now we don't know where we are. Gee, but we're wet and cold.
Where's your camp?"

"Back on the ridge."

"Got a fire?"

"Uh huh," I nodded. "Sure."

"Come on," he said. "We'll go and get the other fellow and then we'll
camp near you so as to have some fire."

"All right," I said.

He led off, and I picked up the rabbits and followed. He kept hooting,
and the other boy answered, and we went down into the gulch where the
creek flowed. Now, that was the dickens of a place to camp! Anybody
ought to know better than to camp down at the bottom of a narrow gulch,
where it is damp and nasty and dark. They did it because it was beside
the water, and because there was some soft grass that they could lie on.
(Note 25.)

The other boy was about seventeen, and was huddled in a blanket, trying
to scratch a match and light wet paper. He wore a big Colt's
six-shooter on a cartridge belt about his waist.

"Come out, Bat," called the boy with me. "Here's a kid from another
camp, where they have fire and things."

Bat grunted, and they gathered their blankets and a frying-pan and other
stuff.

"Lookee! This beats rabbit," said the first boy (his name was Walt); and
he showed me what they had killed. It was four grouse!

Now, that was mean.

"It's against the law to kill grouse yet," I told him.

"Aw, what do we care?" he answered. "Nobody knows."

"It's only a week before the season opens, anyhow," spoke Bat. "We got
the old mother and all her chickens. If we hadn't, somebody would,
later."

Fellows like that are as bad as a forest fire. Just because of them,
laws are made, and they break them and the rest of us keep them.

We climbed out of the gulch, and I was so mad I let them carry their own
things. The woods were dusky, and I laid a straight course for camp. It
was easy to find, because I knew that I had hunted with my back to it,
in sound of the water on my left. All we had to do was to follow through
the ridge with the water on our right, and listen for voices.

I tell you, that camp looked good. The boys had two fires, a big one to
dry us by and a little one to cook by. (Note 26.) One of the tarps had
been laid over a pole in crotched stakes, about four feet high, and tied
down at the ends (Note 27), for a dog-tent, and spruce trimmings and
brush had been piled behind for a wind-break and to reflect the heat.
Inside were the spruce needles that carpeted the ground and had been
kept dry by branches, and a second tarp had been laid to sleep on, with
the third tarp to cover us, on top of the blankets. The flags had been
set up. Fitzpatrick was cooking, Major Henry was dragging more wood to
burn, the fellows were drying damp stuff and stacking it safe under the
panniers, or else with their feet to the big blaze were drying
themselves, the burros were grazing close in. It was as light as day,
with the flames reflected on the trees and the flags, and it seemed just
like a trappers' bivouac.

Then we walked into the circle; and when the fellows saw the rabbits
they gave a cheer. After I reported to General Ashley and turned the two
boys over to him, I cleaned the rabbits for supper.

The two new boys, Bat and Walt, threw down their stuff and sat by the
fire to get warm. Bat still wore his big six-shooter. They dropped
their grouse in plain sight, but nobody said a word until Bat (he was
the larger one) spoke up, kind of grandly, when I was finishing the
rabbits:

"There's some birds. If you'll clean 'em we'll help you eat 'em."

"No, thanks. We don't want them," answered General Ashley.

"Why not?"

"It's against the law."

"Aw, what difference does that make now?" demanded Walt. "There aren't
any game wardens 'round. And it's only a week before the law goes out,
anyway."

"But the grouse are dead, just the same," retorted General Ashley. "They
couldn't be any deader, no matter how long it is before the law opens,
or if a game warden was right here!" He was getting angry, and when he's
angry he isn't afraid to say anything, because he's red-headed.

"You'd like to go and tell, then; wouldn't you!" they sneered.

"I'd tell if it would do any good." And he would, too; and so would any
of us. "The game laws are made to be kept. Those were our grouse and you
stole them."

"Who are you?"

"Well, we happen to be a bunch of Boy Scouts. But what I mean is, that
we fellows who keep the law let the game live on purpose so that
everybody will have an equal chance at it, and then fellows like you
come along and kill it unfairly. See?"

Humph! The two kids mumbled and kicked at the fire, as they sat; and Bat
said: "We've got to have something to eat. I suppose we can cook our own
meat, can't we?"

"I suppose you can," answered General Ashley, "if it'll taste good to
you."

So, while Fitz was cooking on the small fire, they cleaned their own
birds (I didn't touch them) and cooked over some coals of the big fire.
But Fitz made bread enough for all, and there was other stuff; and the
general told them to help themselves. We didn't want to be mean. The
camp-fire is no place to be mean at. A mean fellow doesn't last long,
out camping.

They had used bark for plates. They gave their fry-pan a hasty rub with
sticks and grass, and cleaned their knives by sticking them into the
ground; and then they squatted by the fire and lighted pipes. After our
dishes had been washed and things had been put away for the night, and
the burros picketed in fresh forage, we prepared to turn in. The clouds
were low and the sky was dark, and the air was damp and chilly; so
General Ashley said:

"You fellows can bunk in with us, under the tarps. We can make room."

But no! They just laughed. "Gwan," they said. "We're used to traveling
light. We just roll up in a blanket wherever we happen to be. We aren't
tenderfeet."

Well, we weren't, either. But we tried to be comfortable. When you are
uncomfortable and sleep cold or crampy, that takes strength fighting it;
and we were on the march to get that message through. So we crawled into
bed, out of the wind and where the spruce branches partly sheltered us,
and our tarps kept the dampness out and the wind, too. The two fellows
opened their blankets (they had one apiece!) by the fire and lay down
and rolled up like logs and seemed to think that they were the smarter.
We let them, if they liked it so.

The wind moaned through the trees; all about us the timber was dark and
lonesome. Only Apache and Sally, the burros, once in a while grunted as
they stood as far inside the circle as they could get; but snuggled in
our bed, low down, our heads on our coats, we were as warm as toast.

During the night I woke up, to turn over. Now and then a drop of rain
hit the tarp tent. The fire was going again, and I could hear the two
fellows talking. They were sitting up, feeding it, and huddled Injun
fashion with their blankets over their shoulders, smoking their old
pipes, and thinking (I guessed) that they were doing something big,
being uncomfortable. But it takes more than such foolishness--wearing a
big six-shooter when there is nothing to shoot, and sleeping out in the
rain when cover is handy--to make a veteran. Veterans and real Scouts
act sensibly. (Note 28.)

When next I woke and stretched, the sun was shining and it was time to
get up.

CHAPTER VI

A DISASTROUS DOZE

The two fellows were sound asleep when we turned out. They were lying in
the sun, rolled up and with their faces covered to keep the light away.
We didn't pay any attention to them, but had our wet rub and went ahead
attending to camp duties. After a while one of them (Walt, it was)
turned over, and wriggled, and threw the blanket off his face, and
blinked about. He was bleary-eyed and sticky-faced, as if he had slept
too hard but not long enough. And I didn't see how he had had enough air
to breathe.

But he grinned, and yawned, and said: "You kids get up awful early. What
time is it?"

"Six o'clock."

He-haw! And he yawned some more. Then he sat up and let his blanket go
and kicked Bat. "Breakfast!" he shouted.

That made Bat grunt and grumble and wriggle; and finally uncover, too.
They acted as if their mouths might taste bad, after the pipes.

We hadn't made a big fire, of course; but breakfast was about ready, on
the little fire, and Fitz our cook sang out, according to our
regulations: "Chuck!"

That was the camp's signal call.

"If you fellows want to eat with us, draw up and help yourselves,"
invited General Ashley.

"Sure," they answered; and they crawled out of their blankets, and got
their pieces of bark, and opened their knives, and without washing their
faces or combing their hair they fished into the dishes, for bacon and
bread and sorghum and beans.

That was messy; but we wanted to be hospitable, so we didn't say
anything.

"Where are you kids bound for, anyway?" asked Bat.

"Over the Divide," told General Ashley.

"Why can't we go along?"

That staggered us. They weren't our kind; and besides, we were all Boy
Scouts, and our party was big enough as it was. So for a moment nobody
answered. And then Walt spoke up.

"Aw, we won't hurt you any. What you afraid of? We aren't tenderfeet,
and we'll do our share. We'll throw in our grub and we won't use your
dishes. We've got our own outfit."

"I don't know. We'll have to vote on that," said General Ashley. "We're
a Patrol of Boy Scouts, traveling on business."

"What's that--Boy Scouts?" demanded Bat.

We explained, a little.

"Take us in, then," said Walt. "We're good scouts--ain't we, Bat?"

But they weren't. They didn't know anything about Scouts and Scouts'
work.

"We could admit you as recruits, on the march," said General Ashley.
"But we can't swear you in."

"Aw, we'll join the gang now and you can swear us in afterwards," said
Bat.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17